care for her radiates, and it makes my stomach twist with jealousy.
I’m so happy for Drew but, dammit, I want that, too. Even though I don’t think I can ever trust my own judgement again, I wish I had someone to hold me right now. Thinking that makes me feel sad and pathetic, so I drain the rest of my boozy coffee and immediately fetch the choc-berry ice cream from the freezer. I don’t actually use a soup ladle—I’m not totally nuts—but I do scour the drawers for the biggest spoon I can find.
I stand in the kitchen, wearing pyjama bottoms and my old La Trobe University hoodie. I’m emotionally exhausted and, to quote the great Ron Burgundy, “I’m in a glass case of emotion.” Only it feels like that case is strapped to a rollercoaster and I’m bouncing around inside it like a Ping-Pong ball. It’s a complicated metaphor, but it’s accurate.
Can’t I go back two nights ago to when I was dancing on a stage, feeling free as a bird? Can’t I go back to the hot, mind-numbing pleasure of Sebastian’s hands on my body and his lips at my neck? Can’t I just skip all the humiliation and march right on over to the good stuff?
A knock at the door makes me groan. I love my sister, but she fusses over me when I’m sad and right now I want to stick my whole head into this tub of ice cream. I abandon it on the counter and head to the front door.
“Drew, please. I’m fine, I just want to be alone—” The words die on my lips as I yank the door open.
It’s not Drew.
Sebastian stands there, looking hotter than ever. His dark hair is mussed from the windy spring weather and there’s at least two days of stubble coating his jaw, giving him a darkly, delicious edge. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers and a black jumper under a leather jacket, and there’s something a little bit badass about it.
“What happened?” he growls, not even waiting for me to say anything.
Do I look that bad? I’m gaping like a stunned fish. Shit. I especially didn’t want him to see me like this—doing my best Bridget Jones impression. To my complete and utter horror, a tear slides down my cheek. A single freaking tear. The cliché of all tears!
“Presley.” He doesn’t wait to be invited in and I back up as he steps toward me. “Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I croak. “I’m fine.”
But my eyes don’t want to listen and they’re brimming no matter how hard I try to tamp my emotions down. I’m about to drown in hot, watery betrayal. No, I will not cry in front of him. I’ve suffered enough humiliation for one lifetime.
“Come here.” Sebastian’s arms are suddenly around me and my face is muffled against the soft fabric of his jumper.
I close my eyes and allow myself a brief moment of respite, letting him comfort me in the exact way that I need—without questions, without expectations. Just physical touch.
I shouldn’t be so upset over Mike. And I guess I’m not, really. I walked away today knowing I made the right choice the day of the wedding, even if all the choices leading up to that point hadn’t been quite so good. We were in a relationship, but we were never really in love.
I got myself out of a bad situation and I’m proud of that.
Sebastian’s hand cradles the back of my head, stroking in a soothing, repetitive motion. His fingers tangle in my hair and his chin rests on top of my head like this is a pose we’ve created many times before. I’m not that woman who gets comfortable with a guy too quickly.
But around Sebastian, I feel like I could do anything and he wouldn’t judge me.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asks.
“I don’t really want to talk about it, but I feel like I need to provide some kind of explanation for why I look like a sad post-breakup romantic comedy cliché right now.”
Sebastian pulls back and narrows his eyes at me. “You don’t have any food stains on you and I don’t see any half-eaten boxes of chocolates around here. I’m not sure you can fully class yourself as a post-breakup romantic comedy cliché until you have at least one of those things.”
In spite of feeling like absolute crap, I laugh. “There’s a tub of ice cream melting on the counter right now.”
“Not good